For the Living
by rolleightdown
Summary: The further adventures of Bravo Company of the 139th ODST Battalion. This time, in humanity's darkest hour, they must stop the Covenant--at all costs. The prize: Earth. Rated T to M for language and violence.
1. Chapter 1

**Perry Naval Base  
Point Marianne (Diego Garcia)  
****Indian Ocean  
Sol III (Terra)  
17:43 Local (11:43 Zulu)  
October 19th, 2552 (Military Calendar)**

Recently-promoted Staff Sergeant Murphy was halfway through his third set of fifty pushups and mulling over the most recent training drop that he'd gone through with his squad when PFC Langtree came thundering into the cavernous gymnasium. Murphy paused, sweat dripping from his strawberry-blond hair down into his grey eyes, and looked up at the youth.

The private skidded to a halt, his drop boots nearly sliding out from under him in his haste, as he shouted to Murphy, "Staff! _Staff!_ Turn on MilCom Channel Six! The Master Chief is back!" Before Murphy could even begin to express indignation at his workout being interrupted by a mere Nugget, Langtree was gone, pounding down the white-tiled corridor outside.

Bemused by the trooper's odd behavior--Langtree, despite being new to Bravo of the 139th, was a solidly capable trooper in training scenarios--Murphy made his way on over to the cheap, flat-panel viewscreen attached to the lime-colored south wall of the gym. He flicked on the power switch and manipulated the controls to switch it to six, the UNSC's standard information channel. Ordinarily, idiotic propaganda about the war was interspersed with boring training mottoes on MilCom Six. To Murphy's surprise, a green-armored, seven-foot figure--surrounded by a crowd of UNSC uniforms and press badges--centered the screen.

Murphy's jaw dropped as his mind flashed back to last week. They'd gotten word that Reach had fallen less than a month earlier; everyone in Sol had been waiting with bated breath for the Covenant to show up on their doorstep any day now. PERSCOM had listed the remaining Spartan-IIs as MIA; everyone knew by now that it likely meant all the supersoldiers were dead in the attack on Reach.

_Well, I guess Personnel Command got things wrong this time,_ Murphy's stunned mind offered up.

He hit the volume control upwards, and the announcer's contralto became audible, _"...and it appears that Master Chief Petty Officer Spartan-117 escaped the complete destruction of Reach, along with Sergeant Avery J. Johnson and an indeterminite, but small, number of other marines. At this time, it is not known just how they escaped, but it seems that at least part of the Covenant fleet was destroyed in the process. Now, we go to commentator Jim Osceola, on_ Cairo s_tation..."_

Murphy killed the viewscreen and headed for the showers; it looked as if things were about to get a whole lot more interesting...


	2. Chapter 2

**5 km Outside Pawas  
Afghanistan  
Sol III (Terra)  
15:15 Local (10:45 Zulu)  
November 24th, 2552 (Military Calendar)**

Murphy ducked as six-inch-long, red-hot tungsten spikes suddenly appeared in his peripheral vision, stuck into the ferrocrete wall to his right. He pivoted on his knee, bringing the BR55 to bear and squeezing off a three-round burst. The four riflemen left in his squad joined in after a moment, dropping the three hundred kilo form of the Brute to the ground. More rifle fire barked in the distance, followed by the distinctive roaring of another enemy soldier.

"Scratch one grizzly," came Lance Corporal Julian's baritone over the COM. "Staff, a suggestion?"

"Go," replied Murphy, as his eyes swept the blasted, ruined walls—all that was left of what had been an idyllic suburban area after several weeks of fighting—around him.

A little over a month before, he'd been recovering from the hairiest mission he'd ever had the bad luck to be involved in. Diego Garcia had been like paradise, despite the lack of facilities on the base; there, nobody had been shooting at him. Like all good things, though, it hadn't lasted. The damned Covvies had decided to invade Earth, and it was up to Murphy—and those like him—to stop them from taking over the whole damned planet.

"Those grizzlies seem to be coming from the northeast. If we move two streets over, we should be able to occupy the remains of these buildings here, and here," the L/Cpl continued, bringing up a topographic/satellite composite map in his HUD and highlighting the areas he was talking about. "It should give us clean lines of fire down over these cleared areas to the north and east while still allowing us to E&E out, if we have to, via these two sets of ruins."

"Good job, Julian. We won't be doing the Mogadishu Mile if I can help it, though. Top promised some reinforcements soon," Murphy replied.

First Sergeant Wilson had been with Murphy since his first drop with Bravo of the One-Twenty-Ninth. She'd, personally, saved his ass more times than he could count; he'd returned the favor many times over. They were buddies, as much as two different-ranking noncoms could be, and he trusted her implicitly. Even so, he was not willing to divulge the nature of their "reinforcements" to his men just yet. His memory flashed back to the conversation that he'd had with Top the night before…

* * *

  
"According to FLEETCOM, the squidheads have broken off from the main covvie military, over some sort of philosophical differences, and decided that the human race is worth fighting for. Therefore, we're supposed to get reinforced by a short company of the fuckers some time tomorrow," First Sergeant Wilson explained. "The exact timing is uncertain, but FLEETCOM is definite that they are friendlies. So, no blue on blue 'accidents'. That's an order. Any questions?"

Murphy sighed and then keyed his COM, "Not so much a question, Top, but rather an observation."

"Go ahead," she replied.

"Well, from the Seven Habits of Highly Effective Pirates: 'The enemy of my enemy is my enemy's enemy. No more. No less," Murphy quoted. "Top, how do we know that these guys aren't just going to wait for us to let our guard down and then betray us to their former 'friends'?"

Her answer was not one likely to inspire confidence, "We don't, Staff Sergeant. _That's_ why I want you to keep an eye on them. Besides, I'm familiar with the Seven Habits myself…"

* * *

He shook his head to clear it of the memory and continued, "By the numbers, people. Evens, cover. Odds, move. You know the drill."

The squad made it a whole half a kilck down the road before running into another Covvie patrol. Two squeakies—grunts in the "official" ONI designation nomenclature—stumbled out into the middle of the street, apparently arguing with each other in their high-pitched voices. As none of the troopers in Murphy's squad had translation programs, they couldn't follow the conversation. It was obvious, though, that the two of them were not getting along well when one hit the other on the head with the butt of a plasma pistol.

That, however, didn't worry the squad; the veteran ODSTs simply melted silently back into the shadow-cloaked doorway of what appeared to have once been a grocery store. What worried them was the massive form of a power-armored grizzly who roared at the pair and even kicked the squeaky who had kicked the other. The grizzly stopped for a moment, his nostrils flaring and turned to look directly at the five Helljumpers' hiding place.

_Shit,_ Murphy thought, _we're upwind. He can _smell_ us from that far away?_

He ordered Julian to unlimber a frag grenade and the rest of his marines into firing positions at each of the windows on the ground floor with hand signals. Seeing the grizzly and his retinue of squeakies getting closer and closer, he snapped into the COM, "Now!"

Julian tossed the grenade overhand through the busted-out window and went flat to avoid the backblast. The grenade went off with a massive _"CRACK_!_"_, shredding the grunts and wounding the brute. Four rifles spoke as one, riddling the massive creature's form with 9.5mm rounds and dropping it, lifelessly, to the dusty roadbed.

Such had been the marines' life for the past month and a half, fighting hopeless holding actions against a massively superior foe, hoping against hope to stop the invasion of that last bastion of humanity, Earth...


	3. Chapter 3

**5 km Outside Pawas  
Afghanistan  
Sol III (Terra)  
15:43 Local (11:13 Zulu)  
November 24th, 2552 (Military Calendar)**

After what had been a hard-fought half hour, the five remaining marines of First Squad of Third Platoon were at as much rest as is possible in a hot zone. As the entire _planet_ had been turned into a hot zone, that didn't mean much.

The "evens" from the squad—L/Cpl Maxwell Julian (callsign 3-1-2) and PFC Maria del Toro (callsign 3-1-4)—were racked out in their fighting positions in the most westerly of the two ruined buildings. Their "odd" squad mates—SSgt Patrick Murphy (callsign 3-1-1), Pvt Takashi Okada (callsign 3-1-3), and Pvt Eric Williams (callsign 3-1-5)—were standing their posts, weapons readied and pointed out over the no-man's-land that they had been assigned to cover.

Okada keyed his COM and reported quietly, "Staff, seven tangos, bearing one-four degrees. Range at just over four-zero-zero meters. Looks like a grizzly hunting party."

"I see 'em. Look sharp, marines. Do not engage until they reach two-five-zero meters. That's two-fifty. Understood?" replied Murphy.

A chorus of, "Clear," "Aye, aye, Staff," and "Understood," came back over the COMnet.

Twenty-five glutinous seconds stole past, their passage only marked by the eerie whistling of the dusty wind outside and the grunting, snarling speech of the grizzly squad headed straight for the marines. It appeared that the brutes weren't worried about anyone in the area; they sauntered in an open group, close enough for a single grenade to hit all of them.

As the creatures reached the two hundred and sixty meter mark, Murphy ordered, "Concentrate fire on the commander—that's the gold-armored bastard. Secondary targets are being marked in the TACCOM now. By the numbers, people."

The brown-furred, eight-foot-tall creatures suspected nothing until the rattling "_Crack-crack-crack!_" of assault rifles being fired rapidly in burst mode rang out over the empty, rubble-strewn plain. The leader's shield flashed golden for a moment and then failed under the massive amount of kinetic energy imparted by dozens of 9.5mm slugs. Its armor, and then its tough hide, followed in rapid order, felling the creature in a welter of gore.

Showing little unit discipline, half of the remainder of the squad attempted to go to ground and return fire while the other half charged, roaring a fierce battle cry in their guttural language. Quarter-inch diameter, red-hot, hardened tungsten spikes spewed from every single grizzly's weapon, however.

Some of them struck home. Murphy watched as Williams's IFF indicator shifted from a combat-capable jade to a flickering amber that indicated a disabling wound. Okada's went to a flickering scarlet that meant he would die without immediate medical care.

The rest of the squad continued concentrating their fire, however; the grizzlies died by ones and twos, none of them getting closer than seventy-five meters to the marines' positions.

As the last alien choked out its final, blood-filled breath on that dusty plain, Murphy raced from his firing position to Okada's, snapping into the COM, "Evens, keep a sharp eye out. That'll probably bring any of the fuckers left in the area down on us. I'm tending to wounded."

As Murphy thundered down to the second floor where Okada had taken cover behind a busted-out window, Okada's IFF went to the flat scarlet that indicated a dead comrade.

SSgt Murphy cursed under his breath and then continued on up to the third floor, pausing only to check for a pulse on the off chance that the bio readouts from Okada's armor had been in error. They weren't.

The third floor had been impacted by either a plasma mortar or something else that did one hell of a lot of damage at some point during the fighting; it was nearly riven in two. Murphy and Williams had taken opposite sides of the huge hole in order to cover the portions of the killing grounds outside that would have become blind spots otherwise. Almost thirty seconds of running after Murphy left his position, he reached Williams. Williams was lying on the dirty, broken floor, a six-inch-long spike stuck through his calf.

He looked up at Murphy's entrance and said, quite clearly, "Staff, I'm going to yank this out. I think I'm going to pass out at that point; so, if you would be so kind as to hit me with some biofoam, that'd be just shiny."

Never one for waiting, the young Brit pulled the spike out and then, true to his word, passed out cold on the floor. Murphy grabbed a canister of biofoam from his ruck and filled the massive cavity with it, bandaging the wound and removing the youth's helmet to prop Williams's feet up with it.

Murphy keyed his COM over to the channel assigned to the company, "Bravo Six-One, this is Bravo Three-One-One. Come back."

A pause of three or four heartbeats ensued as his words were scrambled and encrypted, then broadcast via LOS laser links that the squad had dropped on their way in to a microwave repeater nearly two klicks away. It took a moment for 1st Sgt Wilson's rough southern drawl to respond, "Go ahead, Three-One-One. Whaddya got?"

"Top, I've got one kilo-india-alpha and one whiskey-india-alpha. I need a medevac for the latter, and I'm down to three effectives. I am uncertain as to whether I will be capable of carrying out my mission if reinforcements are not forthcoming soon," Murphy replied.

"Damn. Well, we've got ourselves a problem, Staff," Wilson responded. "We've got a full-court press to the southwest; it seems that the grizzlies want to get to something in this town. You're all I've got up there, and the Old Man has his hands full at the moment putting out fires down here. I might, repeat _might,_ be able to shake some CAS loose for you. I can't promise nothing, though. Wait one."

As Murphy waited, he moved his wounded trooper over into some better cover and turned up the heater on Williams's armor; it was cold up at the altitude they were, and the young man could easily go into shock.

He had just moved back to a sentry/firing position at the window when Wilson contacted him again, "You're in luck, Three-One-One. Pelican Golf Three-Five-Niner, callsign 'Cheyenne', is in the area. He's on COMchan Five. Again, that's Golf Three-Five-Niner, on COMchan Five. Oh, and our 'friends' are going to be a little late to the party. At least another hour is the best ETA I've gotten thus far. Good luck and Semper Fi."

"Aye, aye, Top. Semper-fucking-Fi."


	4. Chapter 4

**5 km Outside Pawas  
Afghanistan  
Sol III (Terra)  
15:46 Local (11:16 Zulu)  
November 24th, 2552 (Military Calendar)**

Murphy keyed his COM over to the frequency that Top Wilson had given him and spoke, "This is Marine One-Three-Niner Bravo Three-One-One to Pelican Golf Three-Five-Niner. Come back, please."

"This is Pelican Golf Three-Five Niner. Bravo Six-One said you might be calling. What can The Eye in the Sky do for you today?" a tired-sounding baritone replied.

"We've got one whiskey-india-alpha needing medevac, and we're probably going to need some CAS at some point," Murphy answered. Julian's IFF beacon began pinging, indicating that the marine had something that his sergeant should know about. He continued, "Wait one, please."

Switching back to the TEAMCOM frequency, Murphy asked, "Yes, Julian?"

"Staff, bearing one-eight. Just inside of one klick. Coming 'round the shoulder of the hill. See it?" came the PFC's voice, tight with tension.

"Shit. Wait one, people. I've got the answer on the line," Murphy ordered over the general push.

In the distance, visible as it rounded a granite-strewn slope in the hills, came a massive, four-legged, violet tank. The Scarab was very much beyond the capability of four ODSTs to put down with small arms, no matter how well-trained the troopers were. The tanks, while slow, were massively armored; normally, they were impervious to anything less than 105mm penetrator rounds from a Scorpion MBT.

However, they were somewhat vulnerable at the leg joints—months of fighting against them had taught the marines that much, at least. Once the legs were taken out, it was a (relatively) simple matter to get the central power core of the thing to detonate; all that one needed was a pound or so of C8 high explosive.

That, however, didn't take into consideration the fact that the tanks were always "manned" by _at least_ a squad of covvie infantry. Well, that _and_ the fact that they never travelled alone…

All of this information buzzed through Murphy's mind as he switched back to the Pelican's frequency, "Cheyenne, this is Bravo Six-One. Remember that close air support I said we might need? Well, we're gonna need it pretty soon, and in a big way. We've got one sierra-charlie tank incoming and we ain't got nothing that'll even scratch the thing's paint. I hope you're loaded for bear, 'cause this is gonna be a pain otherwise."

"I got just the thing, Staff Sergeant. I hope you like your beetles fricasseed, son, because we're going to do a number on it," the pilot replied.

_Goddamned cocky flyboys,_ Murphy thought to himself. _We'd never make it through without 'em._

He replied to the pilot, "Understood, Cheyenne. We're awaiting the demonstration of your culinary skills."

A snort, clear over the COM, preceded the pilot's response, "Just keep feeding me data over the TACCOM, and I'll take care of your bug problem."

"Will do, Cheyenne," Murphy replied. He continued, "ETA for the thing is two mikes, thirteen seconds. We'll do our best to draw it in."

The pilot replied, "Gotcha. We'll be on time. See if you can bring it down into the area between buildings there; I'd really rather the thing _not_ have a clear field of fire, eh?"

Murphy's voice was full of grim humor as he replied, "Aye, Aye, Cheyenne. Switching back over to my TEAMCOM now, but I'll keep a constant IFF position feed on the TACCOM. We'll be striking from the southwest of where the Scarab is. Ping me if you need anything else."

"Will do. Good luck, Bravo Three-One-One," the pilot replied.

"We're going to have to get that thing's attention. We need it to come down here, into the larger rubble; it'll offer us more cover against its weapons. Golf Three-Five-Niner is inbound with a set of firecrackers earmarked for it," Murphy said once he switched to the squad push.

He ordered into the COM, "Julian, del Toro, I want you on over watch. Keep the covvie bastards on the deck of that thing off of my back. Once Golf Three-Five-Niner does his thing, I'm going in and seeing if taking a hammer to the motor improves the thing's disposition. Understood?"

"Aye, Aye, Staff."


	5. Chapter 5

**5 km Outside Pawas  
Afghanistan  
Sol III (Terra)  
15:47 Local (11:17 Zulu)  
November 24th, 2552 (Military Calendar)**

The first rattling of the ODSTs' battle rifles rang out over the dusty, debris-strewn plain to the north. The deadly fireflies of the rifles' tracers streaked towards the massive Scarab tank in the distance.

A huge turret atop the tank swung towards the trios' positions in their ruined buildings. The buildup of light around the turret's muzzle was enough to tip off the troopers to impending doom; the high whine of capacitors charging was only a punctuation to Murphy's snapped order, "_MOVE!_"

The order was unneeded. His remaining troopers hadn't survived this long by being stupid or slow off of the mark. Julian and del Toro dove for what little cover additional reinforced concrete could provide, hitting the dust behind interior walls.

The actinic blue-white of the weapon's discharge ate hungrily into the ruins. The stench of burned lime and hot metal overwhelmed the troopers. Fortunately, the secondary explosions caused by multiple tons of ferrocrete being flash-ionized missed all of them. Even more fortunately, using the main cannon on a Scarab to kill individual riflemen was about as difficult as hitting a mosquito with a 12.7mm pistol.

Murphy ordered into the COM, "On your feet! One more volley to draw them in, Marines!"

All three of the troopers popped back up and made their way, with difficulty, back to their firing posts. The trio fired again, managing to strike the Scarab from more than six hundred meters—nearly twenty percent beyond the rifles' official "aimed" effective distance.

The Scarab returned fire, again, as the three of them were racing for various parts of the buildings they were bunkered in. The plasma beam ate into the support superstructure of the building that Julian and del Toro occupied, causing it to begin to list to the west. The five-story structure stopped at about a fifteen degree angle, making movement difficult but not impossible.

Both troopers were back on their feet as soon as possible, only the internal temperature controls of their armor keeping them from roasting in the impossibly-heated air following the wake of the plasma's passage.

Murphy raced for ground level as Julian pounded upwards to what remained of the roof and del Toro clambered towards a third-floor window. They were nearing their goals as the hissing roar of a Pelican dropship on fast approach rose above the whining, thudding movement of the Scarab—now less than a hundred meters away.

Cheyenne burst over the line of buildings, his ANVIL-II ASMs leaping from their racks in wreaths of flame and smoke. The rockets began to impact the Scarab's front two knee joints, the targeting pinpoint in its accuracy. As the Pelican flashed overhead, it flared out in a high-gee turn to bring its weapons back in line and target the untouched two legs of the massive tank.

As it did so, the massive Scarab's turret began to twist and charge at the same time. The Covvie infantry on its decking, what was left of them after the massive 140mm rockets reaped their deadly harvest, were already firing at the grey apparition. Plasma blasts mixed with white-hot tungsten spikes and even a few magnetically accelerated osmium spheres from carbines in reaching out to impact the dropship.

Golf Three-Five-Niner completed his turn and brought the rocket pods back into line with the Scarab. Dropping altitude in a desperation maneuver, he managed to avoid the massive blast of plasma released by the Scarab's main turret. As he throttled the exhaust vents up again to avoid an impact with the hard ground, his copilot triggered her rocket pods. About a third missed this time, but the ones that did were enough to cause the Scarab's automatic systems to drop the body of the tank to the ground in order to avoid falling over.

Murphy raced for the rear ramp of the massive walker, his troopers above keeping the attention of most of the Covvie infantry inside focused on them with aimed sniper fire.

As he sprinted as fast as possible, Murphy's COM pinged with a message from the Pelican, moving off with smoke trailing from several spots on its hull. He switched freqs as the pilot's voice came over, "Bravo Three-One-One, this is Cheyenne. I'm just about bingo on fuel and ammo. I've got to RTB for beans and bullets. I'll be back ASAP for your wounded, but just make sure you get that son-of-a-bitch for me. I didn't ding the paint on this thing to fail, y'hear?"

"Gotcha, Cheyenne. Thanks and good luck," Murphy gasped out.

"Go get 'em, Staff."

The staff sergeant came to a skidding halt right underneath the back decking, unlimbering a flash-bang grenade and tossing it underarm over the lip. There was a short burst of panicked squeaking from the grunt manning a portable plasma turret there and then the sharp "_CRACK!_" of the grenade's detonation.

Murphy clambered up onto the ramp, his rifle's muzzle already seeking the insensate form of the ursine alien. His rifle bucked, sending a pair of 9.5mm rounds into the creature's head. He rounded the corner to the ramp heading up to the second deck and ducked as a trio of white-hot tungsten spikes missed him by a hand's breadth.

The staff sergeant didn't remember switching weapons; but his sawed-off, 8-gauge magnum shotgun, "Tessie", bucked in his hands as it sent a massive load of double-ought through the grizzly-bear-sized creature's torso, dropping it in its tracks.

His only reaction was a cold, _Target down_, as he continued upward. He rounded the next turn cautiously, but this ramp was empty of any remaining infantry. They all appeared to be on the other side of the tank, engaging his comrades in the building above.

He reached the corner to where the power core of the massive tank was located. Unlimbering a M9 HE-DP frag, he tossed it around the corner and waited for the telltale sound of its detonation. Turning 'round the corner with shotgun in hand, he swept the small room for threats.

Finding none, he grabbed a cube of what looked like grey modeling clay but was actually a very powerful chemical explosive. Planting it next to the glowing energy core of the tank, he attached an electronic detonator with a fifteen-second timer. Hitting the activation button, he raced for the back of the tank, ordering over the COM, "Twenty-two seconds to detonation. Find some cover, Marines!"

Murphy himself sprinted to the back of the massive machine, dropping nearly four meters and rolling out of it to race for a wall perhaps a hundred and fifty meters away. He leaped over the low barrier just as the massive machine went up in a cataclysmic explosion, sending chunks of armor and linear actuators spinning away into the distance.

As the echoes of the huge detonation receded and the bits of hot metal raining down on his armor abated, Murphy keyed his COM. He checked his IFF indication screen in the HUD—noting that both of his remaining effectives were alright—before ordering, "Back up and at 'em. Keep an eye out for any stragglers that might have survived. Oh, and good job, people."


	6. Chapter 6

**CS Cruiser **_**Day of Absolution**_**  
Low Orbit  
Sol III (Terra)  
17:34 Local (13:04 Zulu)  
November 24th, 2552 (Military Calendar)**

Squad Master La'Juarna Ilaska looked over his troops in the dim purplish-blue light of the drop bay. Blue-armored warriors, veterans all, they stared forward, unmoving under his hawkish gaze. Every catch of the Sanghellis' armor was in place; every weapon was fully charged. They knew that their leader would find _nothing_ out of place.

Satisfied that they had observed the proper Battle Rites in preparing their gear for the fighting to come, the Squad Master nodded firmly and began the Chant of War, altered for the first time in ten times ten centuries by the Great Betrayal of their Prophets:

"We are already dead. Fear dies here, in this place. With our deaths, we become fearless.  
"Ahead, through the flame, through victory, we may come alive once more. Then, perhaps, there will be fear again.  
"Without victory, there is no life. Without life, there is no fear.  
"We are already dead.  
"By the blood of our Fathers, by the honor of our Brethren, by the betrayal of our Prophets, we are already dead. We will fear not."

La'Juarna came to his full height, placed his violet helm upon his head, and ordered into the reverent silence that the Chant always left, "Board pods, and may the Ancestors protect. I will see you on the ground, brothers."


	7. Chapter 7

**5 km Outside Pawas  
****Afghanistan  
****Sol III (Terra)  
****17:53 Local (13:23 Zulu)  
****November 24****th****, 2552 (Military Calendar)**

Murphy sighed with fatigue as he stared out over the broken plascrete, twisted steel shards, and rotting corpses that marked his personal no man's land. His whole body ached and his eyes burned from fatigue, altitude, and the grit being whipped up by a mournful wind. His hands moved tiredly, mechanically as he lifted a three-lies-in-one meal from his ruck and twisted the tab to start it heating.

The previous hour had seen the marines of his squad repulse two more concerted attacks with no further friendly casualties, and Murphy had ordered a two-up, one-down watch over the ruins. It was his turn to be down, both Julian and del Toro having had their fifteen-minute stand down to eat and rest.

So, of course, it was as he was about to break the seal on his MRE and begin eating that his COM crackled to life, "Bravo Three-One-One, this is Bravo Six-One. Come back."

"Bravo Six-One, this is Bravo Three-One-One. Go," he replied into the microphone, stifling another sigh.

"Murphy, you remember those reinforcements I told you about?" Wilson's voice asked.

"Yep. Why, have they been delayed again, Top?"

"No; they're actually inbound to your position. You should be seeing them just about now overhead. They're inserting via drop-pods to that flat area northeast of you. Make sure that your people know they're friendlies; the eight of them is led by Squad Master Ilaska. Clear?" she asked.

"Crystal, First Sergeant Wilson. Eight squidheads, inserting via drop-pod to our northeast. Squad Master Ilaska leading, no blue-blue fire" Murphy replied. "Do they have translators, or are you sending us a software patch?"

"Patch. I'm dumping it to you now. Mark your position with green smoke. Make sure you treat these guys like friendlies, Murphy. But watch your back, just in case," the first sergeant replied.

"Will do. Semper Fi, Top"

"Semper Fi. Six-One out."

Murphy sighed again and switched back to the TEAMCOM as he saw the first hint of the firey trails marking the drop-pods far above, "Three-One, listen up. We've got nominally friendly troops inserting via drop-pod to our northeast. They aren't normal friendlies, though. Apparently, there was some sort of separation among the Covvies, and the squidheads have come on over to our side. We've got one of their special-ops squads coming in to lend us a hand. I'm dumping the translation program to you right now. Questions?"

Lance Corporal Julian's voice crackled over the short-range COM, "Staff, how do we know, I mean _really_ know, that these guys are friendly?"

Murphy's reply was not one to inspire confidence, "We don't. However, we _will_ treat them as friendly until proven otherwise. I want both of you on your toes, though. No one fires on them without my command or without being fired upon. Is that understood?"

"Aye-aye, Staff Sergeant," both of them chorused.

"Alright then. Del Toro, as soon as they touch dirt, pop green smoke. They'll home on us using that. We'll cover them as they come on in."

"Understood," came back the response.

Murphy sighed again and turned back to his rapidly-cooling meal. He wasn't going to get the time to eat it now, so he stuffed it back into his ruck. And it had been such a _nice_ day up until that point…


	8. Chapter 8

**5 km Outside Pawas  
Afghanistan  
Sol III (Terra)  
17:55 Local (13:25 Zulu)  
November 24th, 2552 (Military Calendar)**

The drop-pods burned downward through the upper atmosphere, trailing wakes of plasma from their thundering passage. Squad Master Ilaska checked the holographic display that showed his unit's trajectories. The Covenant navigation system--hell, the whole _pod_--was much, much more advanced than its UNSC counterpart. Through the use of subtle gravitic drives, the eight elite Sanghelli were able to remain within ten meters of each other as they fell through the stratosphere.

Staff Sergeant Murphy watched the eight artificial meteors fall towards his position with some of the dread that always accompanied seeing the Covvie troops. He shook it off, reminding himself that _these _Covvies were friendly. Leastwise, that's what Higher said. Like FLEETCOM was always right.

The eight pods burned downward, slowing seamlessly as they reached ground level and punched into the hard plascrete underneath the rubbled plain northeast of Murphy's position. As their covers blew outward, revealing a squad of seven blue-armored, seven-foot-tall aliens carrying a variety of weapons led by a purple-armored veteran, PFC del Toro tossed a smoke grenade about twenty meters out from her position on the third floor of a ruined apartment building. Bare moments after the grenade hit the rubble below, green smoke began billowing from the device.

All eight of the massive troops saw the smoke and began loping across the plain towards the source. Unlike most of the forces that the ODSTs had seen--and terminated--in that no man's land, the Sanghelli maintained an interval that would keep them from being taken by a single burst while obviously looking for any possible threats in the area. In short, they moved like well-trained veteran soldiers rather than a barbaric horde.

As they closed on the pair of ruins, they split into smaller groups, two-man (or -monster) teams that covered each other as they advanced. Squad Master Ilaska moved with his most junior subordinate, on the theory that the more experienced Sanghelli should look after the less experienced.

As they reached the buildings, Ilaska called over the UNSC general channel, "This is Squad Ilaska Prime calling for UNSC One-Three-Niner Bravo Three-One-One."

"Ilaska Prime, this is Three-One-One. Please come to the western of the two buildings overlooking the smoke. I'll meet you at the first-floor entrance. That's on the southeast corner of the building," Murphy replied.

Murphy thundered down the ruined stairwell, making occasional leaps over holes that were too wide for him to have faith in the structural integrity of the remaining stairs at those points. He reached the bottom of the stairwell and _thumped_ against the interior wall, sticking just his head out at first to check for possible enemy ambush. When he saw none, he came out into the open next to the nearly-ruined door.

As Squad Master Ilaska rounded the corner of the building, motioning for his subordinate to take up cover here, Murphy's reflexes almost caused the ODST to raise his rifle. At the last moment, he suppressed the instinct that told him this was an enemy, instead concentrating on the surrounding area for threats.

"Squad Master Ilaska, I'm called Staff Sergeant Murphy, or Bravo Three-One-One if you want to get my attention over the TACCOM. It's nice to have some reinforcements for a change," Murphy said to him.

"I greet you in the name of the Ancestors, Staff Sergeant Murphy. May They protect. What is the tactical situation?" the purple-armored veteran replied.

"Well, Squad Master Ilaska..." Murphy hesitated, "'Squad Master Ilaska' is a little awkward. Do you have a shorter name or nickname that I could call you by? Or should I go with Squad Master?"

"It is customary for juniors to call me Squad Master, while equal ranks or superiors may call me Ilaska. I am not certain of your rank structure. Where does 'Staff Sergeant' fall in that structure?" Ilaska replied. "Also, should we move this inside of one of these buildings; I am certain that my former troops have snipers _somewhere_ in this region. I would hate to fall victim to one just because of linguistic difficulties."

"Certainly," Murphy replied, shaking his head at his own thoughtlessness. "Follow me.

"Well, Staff Sergeant is probably equal to or just above your own rank of Squad Master; Staff Sergeants are an intermediate rank between running a squad and being second-in-command of a platoon--a unit of about three to six squads," Murphy continued. "Watch these holes here in the stairs; I'm not sure that they'll support your weight."

"Then you may call me Ilaska, Staff Sergeant Murphy," the eight-foot-tall alien replied, leaping lightly up five stairs to clear the hole with ease.

"Heh. Call me Murphy, Ilaska. 'Less you want to get a hold of me through the TACCOM," Murphy replied with a slight chuckle.

"Well, as to the tactical situation, we've got to hold this line of buildings against assault from the northeast. You see these ridgelines here and here?" he asked, calling up a tactical map of the surrounding area on his HUD and shooting it over to the Squad Master.

"Yes."

"Well, they've mostly been coming on down through this valley, here. This hill, here, gives them cover from our artillery while they land their forces, and then they move down around it to either side. What I'm surprised at is that they've not been coming up and over this ridgeline, here. It's only two klicks high--about three hundred meters above where we are now--and they've got to have _somebody_ with mountaineering experience," Murphy continued.

Ilaska thought that over for a moment and then replied, "They most likely do. However, it is not the Jiralhane way to use flanking maneuvers and deception. Their culture requires them to attack frontally, destroying whatever is in their path. While this is seemingly honorable and would bring glory to their clan, it is not. The path of the Warrior requires that he husband his forces for maximum effect. It is possible that we will see a unit of Yanme'e coming over that ridge, but they do not do well in the cold at this altitude and latitude. Their home world is warm and humid, compared to this planet, and they do not wear any raiment normally."

He thought for another moment and then continued, "My assessment is this: you are likely to see either multiple Type-25 hover vehicles or a single Type-47 walker next."

Murphy replied, "Is the Type-25 one of your heavy hover vehicles that mounts a plasma mortar, and is the Type-47 your heaviest walking tank?"

"Yes."

"Then we've already seen one of your Type-47s. We call it a Scarab. If you look closely at the rubble between this building and the next, you'll see the crater it made when it went," Murphy replied. "Oh, and your Type-25? We call it a Wraith. I'll upload the changes into our translation program so there's no confusion, if you'll give me a moment."

Ilaska pored over the map, noting possible withdrawal routes and choke points as he waited for Murphy to finish. This _puny one destroyed a Type-47? Impressive,_ he thought to himself. _Perhaps these humans are greater in battle than their brethren._

Murphy switched channels back to his TEAMCOM and said, "Bravo Three-One, I'm dumping some changes to the translator to you now. Give me a sitrep and acknowledge receipt of the changes."

"This is Three-One-Two. Patch received, and it's All Clear on the Western Front," came back Julian's voice.

"Three-One-Four. Received. Every thing's clear, but for the squidheads on the first floor," del Toro replied.

"Secure that shit, Private. They're _allies_, remember that," Murphy replied sharply.

"Aye, Aye, Staff Sergeant," came back the reply, followed by a sharp _click_ as she dropped out of the 'net, no doubt to bitch to herself about stupid superiors.

Murphy sighed, switched channels, and turned back to the squad master, "Alright. My changes have been uploaded. Any more thoughts, Ilaska?"

"Murphy, it seems likely that the next assault will be airborne with a Type-52 troop carrier grav-dropping an assault team into your midst while Type-26 ground support fighters cover. It's possible that Type-32 rapid assault vehicles will cover. I find it unlikely that they'd use Type-25s with the terrain being what it is," Ilaska replied. "They will seek to attack us on two fronts, forcing us to divide our forces."

"I want to make sure we're on the same page with our terminology," Murphy replied. "The Type-52 is the dropship with a grav-lift installed? Also, the Type-26 is your smallest aerospace capable fighter, yes? And finally, the Type-32s are the single-seat fast attack hover vehicles with low-yield plasma cannon installed, while the type 25s are a two-seater hover vehicle with a repeating plasma cannon in back?"

"That is correct, except for your last description. The Type-25 is a single-seat partial-hover vehicle. It is only used by Jiralhane forces and only came into use recently," Ilaske corrected him.

"Okay, let me upload the changes," Murphy replied.

After a moment or two, he dumped them to the TEAMCOM and continued, "So, you expe--"

Murphy cut off as something caught his eye in the distance...


End file.
